Word count: 1,012
Prompt: For sga_kinkmeme. John/OMC, anonymous sex, rough sex, cruising. Atlantis is stuck on earth, John's been reassigned and his team is scattered to the wind. Lonely and depressed, he does what he can to forget.
“Come here often?”
John scowls at the kid, who blinks in surprise and slinks away. He’s the fourth such kid John’s scared away tonight, and John wonders what it says about him, that he’s still got standards even while trying to pick up someone he’s never met so he can take them back to a nameless hotel and have his brains fucked out. But the kid’s young, younger than John ever was, and his skin is a little brown and his eyes a little wide and John thinks of Ford and scowls further, but the kid is already gone.
“Young,” the guy next to him says, nodding off at not-Ford. “Makes you wonder why he can’t find someone his own age.”
The guy has been sitting next to him for a good hour or so, and John’s been stealing glances every so often. He’s solid without being big, probably a few years younger than John, doesn’t seem sleazy. John nods at the comment and decides that yeah, he can live with it, and turns in his seat. “John,” he says, holding out his hand.
The man quirks a lip and shakes John’s hand. His grip is firm, solid, like the rest of him, and John thinks about shaking Lorne’s hand as he speaks. “Greg.”
“Interested?” John isn’t in the mood for small talk or beating around the bush. He’s in the mood to be on his back with his legs in the air, forgetting that they sent Teyla and Ronon back on the Daedalus and have Rodney stuck underground at Area 51 and reassigned John to desk duty under the Mountain. Greg just nods and stands, signaling for the barkeep to bring the bill, and when he drops a tenner on John’s check John doesn’t say anything.
John’s got a room in a motel nearby, close enough to walk, and it’s a nice enough night for it. It’s less than five minutes after leaving the bar that Greg has him pressed into the wall, tongue sliding insistently into his mouth, hands fumbling with belts and buttons, and then John’s pants are being shoved around his waist and Greg’s fingers are stroking him firmly.
John gasps and thrusts his hips forward, and Greg drops to his knees. It’s quick and dirty, Greg’s mouth on his cock and Greg’s fingers stroking his balls and his ass. John comes with a sort of choking sound, and he tries not to think about someone else on his knees, someone going slower and sweeter and everything he doesn’t have any more, can’t ever have again.
As Greg kneels up and reaches for his own pants, John leans over and pulls Greg up and tries to lose himself in Greg’s mouth, in his hands, in the way his dick is sliding against John’s thigh. It’s almost working, almost, so he turns and stumbles and hangs onto Greg until he’s crashing down onto the bed under Greg, and then there’s warm weight on his body and he’s finally there, gone enough to keep going.
Greg’s hands are warm as they move under John’s shirt, pulling it up and off. John keeps as much of his body in contact with Greg’s as he can, pulling, grinding against him. He keeps his hands and mouth working as Greg undresses them both down to nothing, and by the time they’re both naked, John’s got a leg hooked around Greg’s thigh and the other bent back towards his own chest.
Greg grins down at John and reaches for the lube and condom he’d grabbed from somewhere while John was busy not noticing, and he rolls the condom on smoothly. His fingers probe at John’s entrance, slick and warm, and he pushes two in just as John thrusts down, and it makes John choke on his breath, the sudden torrent of feeling. Greg stills, but John clenches around him and moves a little. It still hurts, still burns, still doesn’t really feel good, but it’s something and it’s so much better than nothing at all. John moans as Greg starts to move his fingers slowly, in and out, and he’s not thinking of brown hair and concerned blue eyes, he’s not thinking of a warm chuckle against his skin, he’s not thinking of whispered words, he’s not, he’s not.
Greg pulls his fingers out and looks at John. “Good?”
“Yeah,” John gasps, and thinks about someone that doesn’t have to ask, someone who knows, and then he just thinks about how Greg’s filling him, slow and steady and burning and the pain mixes with the pleasure and John can’t figure out which is which any more, which way is up.
John bites his lip to keep the words from spilling out, to keep himself from saying anything revealing, but it’s harder to control his thoughts that way so he opens his mouth and swears in French as Greg moves, moves, moves. It’s good enough to keep him from saying anything embarrassing, friction and heat and sensation everywhere, and he moans as Greg moves his leg a little, changes his angle, pushes deeper, and he moves his hand down and tugs at his own cock. Greg adds his hand to John’s, rougher than John’s used to, and he swears merde merde s'il vous plaît merde plus merde and Greg comes with a ragged groan. He keeps jerking at John’s cock until John arches and bites his lip to keep from screaming out someone else’s name.
When he comes down, Greg is looking at him with a sad sort of smile. “Hey,” John says, and Greg shakes his head as he leans over to press a gentle kiss to John’s temple.
“Je suis désolé,” he says softly, and as he gets up to leave, John has to close his eyes to keep the images from flashing through his field of vision.
It’s too late, though, and the thought running through the back of John’s mind as he thinks of his friends, his team, his family, his home, is I’ll never be able to let it go.